Thanksgiving

These are my kin who believe they know me
The blood forgotten in my veins
This is the room I would not have chosen
My long-dead childhood's living remains

Who is this stranger that runs to hug me?
What does he want me to smile about?
We know each other less each year.
Shall I make myself at home and go out?

Must pretend convivial things
Never knowing what more to say
How do they seem to feel so normal
Clinking glasses of strange rosé?

This is the art of loving illusion
This is a house and not a home
But strangeness has always been kin to me
Strangeness my only honest welcome

No comments:

Post a Comment